Messengers of Death
by MamoruSan
Summary: When Sherlock is given a new case by Lestrade, he doesn't expect to be interested much. However, the murderess quickly shows herself to be quite the adversary. At every scene, there is a winged insect left on the body. What could this new enemy want?
1. Casting the Lure

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. Benedict Cumberbatch would be a great addition to my closet of kidnapped actors. :3

**Author's Note:** Hello Hello! Long time no post! I hope to get back on this site with this new story about my favorite Sherlock and Watson pair!

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><p>Night fell on Islington on the third day of the sixth month. Off to the side of a deserted road, a lone motel stood silently, it's only company the various odd couples inside. The motel itself was derelict, paint peeling off the floor and wall here, mold growing on the ceiling there. On both levels of the building, the lamp lights would flicker on and off at random intervals, perfectly setting the scene for a horror movie. The stairs to the second floor creaked and swayed, giving whomever had the misfortune of walking up them the feeling that they were on a rope bridge. On the second floor as far as the hall could go, a door slammed open, sending vibrations down the wall. A scantily clad woman rushed out, stumbling over her heels. Her breathing was fast and sharp, her face contorted in an ugly panicked look. She fell to her knees on the balcony as she cried out.<p>

"Help! Please! Somebody!"

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><p>"Sherlock!"<p>

Sitting with his back against the arm rest, legs stretched out on the seat of the couch, the consulting detective calmly opened one eye, the form of his flatmate coming into view.

"John." Sherlock said softly, closing his eye again. He placed his hands together in meditation, resting them under his chin. Vaguely, he could hear John Watson continuing to chatter away. Sherlock sighed. He needed silence.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John's irritated voice wafted through his ears yet again. Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, focusing on his friend.

"No." he said frankly, standing up and making his way to the cube seat, jumping onto it, settling down and grabbing his violin and bow. John let out an exasperated sigh for the umpteenth time since he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes, the infamous consulting detective, and threw his hands in the air. He should have learned by now that there was no point in trying to get the man's attention. Obviously he was in the middle of a deep thought, whatever it may be.

Sherlock drew the bow across the strings, sending a shiver down John's spine. Why that man had insisted on continuing to play an instrument he obviously had no talent in continued to stump him. _It helps him think_. John kept telling himself, trying to block out the sound. But when it started sounding like a kitten dying, John put his foot down.

"Sherlock, you haven't taken a case in weeks!" John said, moving to stand right in front of his friend. "I can barely support me from what I get at the clinic, and you're just sitting there, half asleep-"

"Lestrade is here." Sherlock interrupted, his ears perking up at the sound of a car approaching outside. John stopped mid-sentence confused.

"How can you te-"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade's car is overdue for it's checkup, since he never let anyone from Scotland Yard take it in for him. That being said, you can hear his breaks squelching even from two floors up, and no one would stop in front of here unless it's for Mrs. Hudson, or it's the police. Also, his footsteps-"

"It could have been Sarah, coming for me." John took the chance to interrupt, before Sherlock got out of hand. The brilliant detective rolled his eyes at him.

"No, it couldn't be." he said with his superior air. "Especially since she's in the Congo right now, working with Doctors Without Borders, missing you horribly. It's disgusting." He leapt off of the chair and walked up to their flat door, locking it in place. John stood, stupefied again.

"I didn't tell- How could you possibly have-" John started, unable to complete a thought. He stopped himself as he realized that he did not want to know, and asking would only egg on Sherlock's ego. He didn't need a thing like that to get any bigger. Shaking his head, he settled himself at his desk and opened his laptop, trying to ignore the other man.

"You write letters." Sherlock said, peeking through the peephole in the door. "Good, Ms. Hudson is distracting him with her nonsense." he mumbled to himself, keeping a keen ear out on the door. If Lestrade had come to him with a case, it could only mean the police were out of their depth again, and he would be asked to help. At this moment, all he wanted was a moment of silence to think about-

_Rap-rap-rap._

"Sherlock, dear, there's a nice young man here to see you." Ms. Hudson's voice came through the door, and Sherlock recoiled from it, as if it had been electrocuted. Of course she would let him in, the little old woman. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, sorry, Sherlock's not here right now," he said, in his best imitation of John. Looking up from his laptop screen, John Watson mouthed incoherent words, before deciding it wasn't worth it. There's no way Ms. Hudson would fall for that anyway-

"Oh, sorry, John, but Detective Inspector Lestrade would like to talk to Sherlock, do you know when he'll be back?" again, the nice landlady's voice wafted through the closed door. John resisted the urge to bang his head on his desk. That bloody idiot.

"Uh, no, sorry-" Sherlock said, just as the other door from the hallway into their kitchen opened forcefully. In came Detective Inspector Lestrade and his trusty Sergeant, Sally Donovan. She had a pleased look on her face, as if she enjoyed breaking down his door.

"Heya, Freak." she said, as she came into the room. Sherlock rolled his head back, cracking the joints in his neck and looked at the intruding pair. Lestrade looked like his usual self: dull, boring, and old. Sherlock sighed and straightened his back.

"How can I help you today, Detective Inspector?" he asked, putting on the most normal voice he could possibly do at the moment. Last thing he wanted to do was to go on a case; no matter what John said, no matter what Lestrade had for him.

"Well, you could start by stopping with these childish acts." Lestrade said, crossing his arms. "Or I could arrest you for obstruction of justice." Sherlock just stared back at him blankly, waiting the real point. Lestrade sighed and turned to Donovan. "Show him the picture."

With a small look of disdain, Sally Donovan pulled out a folded up picture from the inside of her jacket and handed it to Sherlock. He took it half heartedly and unfolded it.

"A dead body?" Sherlock asked, boredom already starting to sink in. They were showing him a picture of a dead body, just a body, with a moth pinned to a piece of paper laying on top of him. The moth had orange brown wings, with two dark spots near the inner fascia. _And_, Sherlock thought, _I'm pretty sure this is a-_ His thought process was interrupted by the officer.

"What do you think of the butterfly, by the way? Some new psychopath's M.O.?" Lestrade pushed. Sherlock flung the paper over his shoulder. John stood up from his chair and grabbed the photo from the ground, staring at it.

"It's an Northern Broken Dash. Commonly found in the US. Boring." Sherlock said, turning back towards the couch and flopping down on it. He gazed curiously at John as the man seemed to continue to be transfixed by the picture. "What's the matter, John?"

"Don't you know who this man is?" John asked Sherlock, waving the picture at him. Sherlock shrugged.

"Obviously he isn't anyone of importance, or I'd have him in my head somewhere. Does who he is matter, in an investigation?" he lifted his arms over his head, stretching, wanting more and more for this bother to be over.

"Not normally." Lestrade said, walking to John and taking the photo from him. He placed it in his trenchcoat pocket. "But this man is Rory Integral, an MP. And he was found dead last night."

"I voted for him." John said quietly, sitting back down at the desk. Sherlock scoffed.

"So, what is it you want me to do?" he said, gruffly. "Hurry and tell me, would you? Because I would love to get back to what I was planning on today."

"You mean, nothing?" John shot at him. Sherlock gave him a small smile. He was getting quicker in those comebacks.

"I'm setting up a team, and I want you to work with them. The House of Commons is placing this as a number one priority, so I have to put my best men on it. Unfortunately, for both you and for me, that means I need you." Lestrade said, sighing heavily. Sherlock leaned back on the couch.

"But I am not one of _your_ men, Lestrade." he said, smugly. Lestrade clicked his tongue and chuckled.

"Not normally, no." he said, just as haughty. "But because you are a detective that is consulted regularly by Scotland Yard, we have every right to use our powers to ask you to do this. Or, I will find a way to force you. Perhaps another drugs bust?" He dug into his pocket and furnished a piece of paper. Sherlock glanced at it. It could only be a search and seizure warrant. He sighed, annoyed. Why not. At least now John would be quiet about not having a case. Besides, something like this could probably be solved in only a matter of minutes.

"Fine, I'll do it. Where is it?" he asked, getting up and trudging to the coat rack. He grabbed his own trench coat and threw it on, fully prepared for this new so-called case. He flung open the door and started down the stairs.

"Warren and 3rd." Lestrade said, following him. Donovan came right behind.

Poor John Watson looked up from his laptop to see himself alone in an empty flat. Swearing, he leapt up from his chair, slamming his laptop shut, grabbed his jacket and ran out of the building after them.

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><p>Off the abandoned streets of Warren and 3rd, a quaint little motel sat, surrounded by police tape and cop cars. John hurriedly got out of the cab and tipped the cabbie, and ran up to Sherlock who was standing next to Lestrade, peering up at the second floor.<p>

"The victim, as I mentioned before is Rory Integral, a member of Parliament in the House of Commons. He came to this motel at approximately 8 last night, with that young lady over there." Lestrade said, pointing at a distraught looking woman with a blanket over her shoulders sitting in the back of an ambulance. "So far the only thing we've learned from her is that she goes by Taffy, and she was an escort hired by him. While they were, um..." Lestrade cleared his throat. "_spending_ the night together, someone broke in and hit her in the head, knocking her out, and we can assume he then killed Integral. She claims to have woken up a bit later, and then ran outside to call for help."

Sherlock glanced at the woman. Besides seeming shaken up, she looked like the picture of health. Her hands were trembling as she drew the blanket around her tighter. He narrowed his eyes. Why do humans even bother to have affairs with these miserable women? He didn't see how it was worth it.

"Alright then, I'm going up to the crime scene." Sherlock declared, quickly stepping up the stairs, John hot on his heels. Most of the police tape was surrounding one room on the far left, the last room on the second floor. Glancing quickly at the number plate on the door, room 221, he pushed the door open. He felt along the edges of the frame of the door, feeling the frayed wood as he passed into the room, thinking to himself.

Almost as soon as he entered, he found his way blocked by four other people, standing over the body, which was laying spread eagled on the bed practically naked aside from a pair of boxers. Sherlock paused, and found his way into the room. He cleared his throat.

"You must be the team Lestrade mentioned." Sherlock said, trying to stay as civil as possible, if anything, just to get it over with as quick as possible. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

"Yeh, I've 'erd of ya." said the man nearest to him gruffly, in a thick cockney accent. He held out his hand for Sherlock to take. "The name's Hardin'. John Hardin', Scotland Yard." He jerked his head at the other three people. "Them's Goodly, Rowling and Orpheous." The other detectives barely acknowledged Sherlocks' presence and kept eyeing the body. That was fine. Sherlock hated working with more than one people anyway.

"This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson." Sherlock said causally, nodding to John who had stayed by the door. "He'll be assisting me. Now," he pushed past the other four and made his way to the body. "If you will excuse me." he pulled on some gloves and leaned over the dead man.

Rory Integral was young, perhaps in his late 20's, with dark brown hair. He leaned down and sniffed the man's hair, and ran his fingers along his forehead. Sherlock then pulled the man's eyelids up, to reveal that both eyes were bloodshot red. He then looked down at the body. Integral had multiple bruisings around his temple and neck, as well as his arms and legs and chest. Most of the marks were consistent with hand marks, and yet, some others looked more along the lines of ropes, or something else tied around his limbs. Rigor mortis had already started to set in, so he knew that there wouldn't be much he'd be able to get out of the body other than that, other than-

Sherlock stood up and made a beeline for the two pieces of luggage that had been propped up on the side of the room, lifting the top up on the first one. Inside, as he expected, a multitude of dominatrix toys. That girl outside, definitely not a normal prostitute. He moved to the second bag and opened it, determining by the size of the bag and the contents, that the man had only been intending on staying in Islington for three days before returning back to the heart of London. Content with his findings, he stood up and gave a small smile to the other detectives.

"Come on, John." Sherlock said, making his way to the door. John looked at him a bit startled.

"You don't need me to look at the body? Not even for a second opinion?" John asked. Sherlock glanced down at him.

"Unfortunately, I can't see how a second opinion would do me any good on this one, since Lestrade'll be getting four other opinions in a matter of minutes." he said quickly, swishing out of the room and down the stairs. He brought himself up to Lestrade.

"Well?" the Detective Inspector asked him.

"Arrest the girl." Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Arrest the girl." he repeated. As Lestrade continued to give him a puzzled look, Sherlock sighed and started his explanation. "As I walked into the motel room, the door was still on its hinges, and the frame had not been busted up at all. That means, no break in. If, however, you still claim that there could have been another assailant, that means that they would have had a key for the locked door, since no one in their right mind would leave a motel room unlocked when you are planning on spending the night with a hooker, and therefore they are a member of this establishment. Since I know you fine men have had your witness giving testimony as to who this could be and have not arrested anyone working for the motel, I know that that is not the case either. So, no third party. What also gives it away is that there is no mark of an assault on the girl. She is shaken up, but no bruisings on her head, or blood, or even a paramedic treating her. She wasn't knocked out.

"Inside the room, the man is heavily bruised, as you could tell. What frustrates me is that you have removed the butterfly. I would have like to have seen it actually at the crime scene." he took a breath.

"We have it in evidence, you can see it later." Lestrade interjected. Ignoring his input, Sherlock continued.

"He has obvious markings all around his body that points to a submissive role. The woman is not only a prostitute, but also a dominatrix. Her job entailed that she had to use her toys to keep him submissive, and therefore most of the bruisings are unrelated to the case. However, his eyes are bloodshot, which points to a ruptured blood vessel in the eyes, causing the hemorrhaging. The best cause for this would be multiple hits to the head, as the blood vessels in the eyes break easily under trauma.

"So, whether it be an accident or not, she would have been responsible, so arrest the girl." Sherlock concluded, his smug look being replaced by one of boredom. See, that hadn't taken more than twenty minutes. A waste of time. Lestrade looked at him blankly.

"We just... we just released her to go back home." he said, his voice barely coming out. "She was too much in shock that we were going to take her to the hospital. But all she said she needed was a good nights rest at home. So she left." Sherlock just glared at him and rolled his eyes, stepping past him to catch a cab at the nearest street.

"Well, Detective Inspector Lestrade, that's your problem now." Sherlock said, stuffing his hands in his pocket and walking off. John quickly followed him.

"So, that's it then?" John asked, when they were out of earshot. Sherlock chuckled.

"Not by a long shot." he said. "My main question about this was why a gay man was in a room with a female dominatrix prostitute." John sputtered.

"He's gay?" he asked.

"Of course he's gay, didn't you notice the- Oh never mind." Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively at his friend. Explaining it over and over again was starting to get dull, as was John's continued eagerness at hearing his deductions.

_Northern Broken Dash._ Sherlock thought. _Why?_


	2. Setting the Hook

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. He is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and has recently come to life with the ingeniousness of Steven Moffat. Have I ever mentioned that I've met the Moff? 3

**Author's Note:** Oh man, I absolutely love Sherlock. I'll admit, it's quite difficult writing the way that he would speak or think. I hope I'm doing a decent enough job for people to see these take place in their head. :3

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><p>"You!" The man called out in a husky voice as he was backed onto the edge of the roof. The hooded figure approached him, their unseen face sprouting a sinister smile, holding a pistol in their right hand. The man scrambled for his holster by his side, only to find it empty, his gun glistening in the rising sun on the far end of the roof. He had never fought unarmed before, and there was no way he could start now. He peered over his shoulder. They were twenty stories up over Southwark, and it wouldn't be pretty if he fell. He turned back to his attacker.<p>

"Stay back!" he cried out, his voice starting to crack. His foot stepped back one, almost off the ledge. "Please, spare my life, and I won't tell anyone you-"

With one huge thrust of their leg, the assailant kicked the poor pleading man off the ledge, not giving him any time to react and grab his attacker, sending him plummeting to his untimely demise.

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><p>Sherlock glanced up and down the building as he and John stepped out of the taxi. It was unusually quiet today, much like the silence he had been vying to get for the past two days. But no, there was another murder, and Lestrade had wanted him there.<p>

"Benjamin Goodly." Lestrade said, pointing out the unfortunate victim, whose body was mostly crushed by the pavement. Sherlock snapped back to the crime scene.

"Who?" he asked. Names meant nothing to him. He never needed a name to do an investigation, and just being told the name was such a bother.

"Oh come on, Sherlock!" Lestrade said exasperated. "You just met him yesterday at the motel!" Sherlock cocked his head.

"Oh right, one of the detectives." he said, finally, with recognition. He turned toward the corpse and knelt down near it. "Sorry, I didn't recognize him with his head smashed in." Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. _Where was the rest of the team?_ Lestrade asked himself.

"He was obviously on the roof and fell off." A voice said behind the consulting detective. He turned to see the other three detectives coming up to the scene. The speaker, Lester Orpheous, was taking a long drag on his cigarette, exhausting a cloud of smoke.

"What do you think he was doing on the roof in the first place, then?" Castor Rowling retaliated. "Star gazing? In ruddy London?"

"He was a always a weird one, I wouldn't count it against him." Orpheous shot back. The two glared at each other.

"Now, now." Harding said coolly, taking a notepad out of his coat. "Let's just look at 'is body first, shall we?" He came up to Sherlock and kneeled down as well. "What do yer have for us, Mr. Consultin' Detective?"

Sherlock sighed and stood up, shoving his hands in his winter jacket. He looked up towards the building again, trying to piece everything together. As he started to lose himself in thought, a fluttering object in the sky caught his attention. It appeared somewhere around the third or fourth floor of the building, and was drifting straight down, no wind or anything blowing it aside. He kept his eyes on it as it deftly landed on the dead detective's back.

Just like the previous crime scene, there was now a dead butterfly pinned to a small square piece of paper in the equation. This time, the butterfly was different, more orange, and slightly bigger. Sherlock cocked his head. Now, these crimes were linked. _A serial killer. Brilliant_. He turned away from the body smiling, and thought.

_This butterfly was an Orange Tip. A butterfly. Was it a message? Or did it have to do with the victim? First was a parliament member, and it was a Northern Broken Dash. Now, a detective, and it was an Orange Tip. Where's the connection there?_

By now, the other detectives had noticed the note with the pinned butterfly. All the color drained out of Orpheous' face.

"We're next." he muttered, his eyes widened and his jaw held slack. His cigarette fell out of his mouth. "First the MP, then one of the detectives on the case of his death. We're next!"

"Calm down, Orpheous!" Harding growled. "Don't jump to conclusions. It's probable he was just in the wron' place at the wron' time. Now if he fell from the roof, that is where we should begin our search. Let's go." Harding stood and directed all the officers to follow him into the building, leaving Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and a slightly hysterical Orpheous behind. Sherlock turned to John.

"Come on, we're going to the third floor." he said, starting toward the entrance to the building. Lestrade held out a hand and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Hold on, why the third floor?" he asked. "The body fell from the roof." Sherlock sighed. Why could no one ever see his conclusions without any explanations?

"You say the body fell from the roof. Quite right, I commend you. At this height of 200 feet, and this distance from the building, the most appropriate level of his plunge would be the 20th floor, or the roof. Normally, these windows on the building do not open. Since there are only emergency escape windows on every other window on this building, and since on this side of the window those emergency escapes are only on the odd floors, it is only possible for him to have fallen from the roof. As for why I am heading to the third floor, a piece of paper fluttered down this same building from somewhere, and landed perfectly on the body. now there is no wind today, but even so, if it had been dropped from the roof, it is quite improbable that it would fall directly on the body. Now, where could you toss that slip out without it straying too far? it would have to be the second, third, or fourth floor. As I pointed out before, emergency windows are only on the odd floors, therefore it could only have come from the third floor. And, while I have been explaining this to you, there is no doubt that our murderer has escaped again. Thanks to you not listening to me right away, she's probably disappeared." Sherlock breathed out. Lestrade could only stare blankly at him.

"'She'?" The Detective Inspector was able to finally get out. Sherlock chuckled, not believing how slow the other man was.

"Yes, she." Sherlock repeated, indignantly. "The hooker from yesterday. You said she went home last night after you let her go. What's frustrating is that you know who this murderer is, but cannot catch her. Says something about the police force, don't you think?"

"Oi, watch it." Lestrade started. He stopped as he heard John exclaim from behind them.

"What's that?" John asked, pointing at another fluttering piece of paper coming down from the building. As it approached eye height, Sherlock snatched it, raised an eyebrow at the strange handwriting, and read it aloud.

"Where are you, dear Sherly? I'm still waiting for you." He read, in monotone. He looked up and shared a quick glance with John and Lestrade before the three of them lunged toward the building and dashed up the stairs to the third floor, ignoring everything and everyone.

As they reached the level, they flung open the door that separated the stairs from the room. The three of them stood stunned in the doorway as they realized where they had found themselves.

They were in a call center, with cubicles upon cubicles upon rows of cubicles with women on headsets sitting in each one. The entire floor was organized chaos; their culprit could have been hiding anywhere.

The three of them spread out on the floor, checking each girl for that familiar face. Sherlock slowly approached the fire escape window, where the two notes had fallen from. He peered through the glass down at the crime scene. He couldn't have been mistaken. He turned to the nearest girl in the cubicle closest to the window, whose back was toward him.

"Excuse me, miss." Sherlock said, smiling his sickeningly sweet smile. She turned her head towards him. I was wondering if you could help me." The young lady blushed slightly and nodded, unable to take her eyes at the good looking man leaning over her shoulder. He widened his smile. "Can you spare me a slip of paper?"

The girl's face blushed a deeper red as she fiddled with her printer. Within a few seconds, she had a blank sheet of paper for Sherlock. Giving her another smile, he snatched the paper and turned toward the window, tearing the paper into a small square, roughly the same size of the notes with the butterflies pinned to it. He taped to squares to each other, trying to simulate the same weight as the other notes. Pushing open the window, he positioned his arm out so that when he dropped it, it fell directly on the body. He smiled smugly. Without another glance at the window, Sherlock started to head for the other two men on the other side of the floor.

"Um, excuse me, sir." the girl by the window said shyly. Sherlock turned on the spot, his usual passive face already back.

"Yes?" he asked. The girl stuttered as she held out another piece of paper for him.

"This is for you, sir." she muttered, offering it out for him. Sherlock glanced down. It wasn't a blank page this time. It had a ten digit number written on it.

"What's this?" he asked, taking it. "A code? A cypher? Did the murder leave this with you?" he demanded of the poor girl. She shivered slightly, and shook her head.

"N-no, sir." she said, blushing an even deeper color. "It's my number, sir, I was hoping you would-"

Before she could finish, Sherlock set the paper back of her desk and walked back to the other men, leaving the poor girl behind, hurt and shocked.

"Did you find anything?" John asked as Sherlock approached him.

"Nothing unusual." Sherlock said simply, standing beside his friend. The two stood in an awkward silence for a few seconds. "Although, one of the girls over there tried to hand me an irreverent piece of evidence." he said casually, John turned to look at him.

"What was it?" he asked. Sherlock exhaled loudly.

"I'm not sure. It was ten digits, and she said it was hers. I'm not quite sure what she meant, but there seemed to be no connection, so- what?" he interrupted himself as John just stared at him blankly.

"You're kidding, right?" John asked, not believing what he was hearing. The brilliant consulting detective, not knowing when someone was hitting on him? "She was giving you her phone number." he explained, flabbergasted. This time, it was Sherlock's turn to stare blankly.

"Ah," he finally said, as his mind wrapped around the concept. "Well, that would explain the rise in breathing and body temperature I noticed in her." he thought. "I never thought-"

"That's because you're an idiot." John shot at him. The two locked eyes and grinned cheesily. These many months they've been together have brought them closer to each other, so much that it seemed John was finally getting used to Sherlock's social ineptness and Sherlock wasn't as criticizing of John's lack of brain power. When only a few months from when they moved in, they were almost like best friends.

The first one Sherlock had ever had. Mycroft would be so proud.

Lestrade joined them within a few minutes, having come from the offices on the left side of the floor. He glanced at the other two men.

"Did you find anything?" he asked, his hands on his hips, already tired of this goose chase. John shook his head, expressing a mutual feeling of exhaustion. Lestrade and John looked to Sherlock.

"No, I didn't find anything either." he said, simply. "Nothing important or new, anyway." he turned away from the other two and tapped his temple, thinking. He closed his eyes.

Why would she send the second note to bring them up to the third floor? And that note... It had been directed at him. _Sherly_. Obviously, it was meant for him. Did that mean that the two butterfly murders were connected to him? But he had never met that girl before, not before the day before, at the crime scene, at least.

So if she wasn't the connection, what could it be? Was it the men killed? No, he hadn't known of them until, again, the day before. It all didn't make sense. It was connected, yet not. What was the pattern?

Still trying to work through connecting the dots, Sherlock shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. He quickly withdrew his right hand as he received a papercut from the second note that he had still held. Shaking his fingers to relieve his sharp pain, he grabbed at the note again, pulling it out, now stained with small drops of his blood.

A thought came to him as Sherlock curiously turned the note over in his hand. The paper was slightly thicker than the normal computer paper, and only this one sheet was able to flutter down at the same point. If this one small square was able to act in the same way as the one with a butterfly pinned to it-

It had to be a personal stationary. A custom made paper, heavier than regular old printer paper. Sherlock flipped it back over and looked at the note again. As he glanced at it, he could have hit himself. How could have have missed something like this?

Where Are you, Dear SHerly, I'm still watING foR you.

Was it because it was so simple that he had overlooked it? Or had he just assumed that it was the way she always wrote? Whatever the reason, Sherlock smiled. Perhaps it was a clue. He thrusted the note into John's hands.

"What do you see here?" he asked.

"It's your love note from a psychopath." John said blandly. Sherlock sighed.

"Notice anything unusual?" Sherlock prodded. John stared at the note further.

"You mean other than the horrendous handwriting?" John said jokingly, handing the note back to his friend.

"Yes! I mean, no!" Sherlock said. "The handwriting. It's not horrible by habit. Look, random capitalizations." he pointed at each upper case letter. "W, A, D, S, H, I, I, N, G, and R. Scramble them up, and you get-" he paused, thinking.

"Yes?" Lestrade prompted. Sherlock still stood silently.

"I have no idea." he finally said. "It doesn't make a word... Unless..." he gasped in excitement, something clicking in his head. "If we remove the letters that need to be capitalized, to be grammatically correct, W, S, and one of the I's, mixing them up again gets you-"

In his mind, the words rearranged themselves in the possible combinations of the letters, until it settled on a recently heard word. He brought out a pen and wrote on the side of the note, the letters put into place the same way he saw them in his head. He wrote the final letter and showed it to his two companions.

HARDING

John stared, shocked. Harding? What could that mean?

"It makes a coherent word." Sherlock said proudly. Lestrade kept his blank stare.

"This can't possibly mean-" he asked, dumbfounded. He grabbed the note from Sherlock. "And what do you think you're doing, writing on evidence all of a sudden?" he added, angrily.

"Oh who cares about the evidence?" Sherlock snapped back. "I found the only thing that it could actually mean. What was that cockney detective's name again?" he started to pace around, snapping his fingers.

"John Harding, you mean." John said with realization. "Is this a proclamation of her next victim?"

"Precisely." Sherlock said, clapping his hands in glee. "This is the connection that I was searching for. That paranoid detective was right. We are all being attacked one by one. But why- why would she send this message?"

"Perhaps she was afraid you'd lose interest if there wasn't anything like this. It could just be a bluff." John suggested, mostly hoping what he was saying was true. Sherlock scoffed and shook his head.

"I don't know, but it has caught my attention now." he gritted his teeth. "I won't let her continue. We'll have to find her before she can kill again. She killed the MP, and perhaps she has now shifted her gaze to us, those who are the closest to catching her."

With a wide-eyed look, Lestrade grabbed his radio and called in an alert to find Detective Harding and bring him to the station. He tipped his hat to the gentlemen, and without another word, he left the building for the police station, with the full intention of protecting his detective.


	3. Taking the Bait

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. I only own the copies that the wonderful Moffett bestowed upon me by his good grace.

**Author's Note:** Hrm, nothing to report. These might be a bit slow on the updating, since it's a school semester. I'll try to have at least one chapter up per week, or two weeks. Review with thoughts, ideas, interests? XD

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><p>"Good morning, sir, your usual?" the girl behind the counter asked cheerfully to the man who just walked into her small coffee shop.<p>

"You betcha, Jill." he said gruffly. He settled himself on one of the couches in the cafe, grabbing the newspaper, ignoring the other people in the shop.

Within a few moments, Jill brought his drink on a tray, trembling slightly.

"H-here you go, sir." she said, trying to force a smile. Without looking at her, he grabbed his coffee and left six pounds on her tray, muttering a small thank you.

He left the small coffee bar and started down the street, sipping his usual four shots of expresso. He sighed. The past few days had been so hectic that it felt nice to actually be able to relax with a cup of coffee. In the cold weather of a London winter, this was heaven. He was feeling warmer and warmer by the second.

Too warm.

He clutched his chest, as his breathing started to get harder. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and he could feel his skin becoming flush. He struggled to breathe, as he felt as though something was squeezing the air out of him. He fell to his knees, his coffee cup falling from his hand and rolling away.

In only a few seconds, he was dead, spread out along the sidewalk outside of his usual coffee shop. As panic started up and down the road, a small figure stepped out of the coffee shop, stopped by the body and stared at it. Their hood was over their head, covering most of their features. They dug into their pocket and pulled out a pristine slip of paper with a butterfly on it, and softly laid it down on the dead man.

And without another look back, the hooded figure walked off down the street and out of sight from the panicked people around the body.

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><p>"Damn it all." Lestrade muttered as he stood over the body in the middle of Hackney. He had originally thought that Orpheous' hysterics the day before had only been his own imagination, but with this death, it could only mean that that poor man's paranoia actually had merit. He sighed. How that coward became a detective had been such a mystery to him. He turned from the body and walked up to his Sergeant. "Donovan, have you heard from Sherlock?" he asked. Sally Donovan raised her eyebrow in a look of slight disbelief.<p>

"You think I keep Freak on speed dial or something?" she asked. "And no, there's been no sign of him anywhere around here either. Him or his life partner." Lestrade decided to ignore the last sentence and looked back at the body.

"How could this have happened in broad daylight?" Lestrade asked out loud to himself. _And why did I have to be too slow to reach him?_ Lestrade had tried to tell the detective yesterday after their rendezvous in the station. John Harding had only waved him off, saying that he was quite aware that his life may be targeted, however he was sure that he would be able to take care of himself. And Lestrade, against his better will, let him leave for the night. And now-

"According to the girl in the coffee shop, there was poison in the coffee." Sherlock's voice said from in front of him. Lestrade looked up. Sherlock and John were just exiting from the coffee bar. Lestrade placed both hands on his hips.

"And where have you been?" he asked sternly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Just investigating, butterflyer." he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, mimicking him, placed his hands on his hips as well. Lestrade let his arms go limp with exasperation. Sherlock smiled as he started to remove his gloves. As he placed them in his pockets, he continued. "The girl in the coffee shop gave him the poison."

"She just told you that, then?" the Detective Inspector shot at Sherlock. Sighing, Sherlock shook his head and turned to John.

"If you please, John." he said lazily. John stared blankly at him.

"What, I'm like your secretary now, am I?" he asked forcefully. He wasn't going to take this ordering around if he could stand it. But Sherlock had a way about him that got other people to do his bidding, so he knew he wouldn't be able to hold off for long. The Consulting Detective gave him a wan smile, that made John felt like he was pleading him. He wouldn't give in. He wouldn't.

"I saw you write down her testimony in that notepad of yours. I'd like to tell the Detective Inspector a correct account of what was said." Sherlock said, his voice sweet and smooth, the tone he used when he played people. John knew it.

"And you didn't remember what she said? I'm shocked." he replied back, trying to fend the manipulating man off for as long as he could before-

"John, really, not right now, could you just read it?" Sherlock lost his tone, and he went back to his usual bored self. If John didn't comply with him, he would probably drop the whole case completely. And then where would they be? Up a creek without a paddle and a very angry Detective Inspector on their ass.

"Fine." John Watson grabbed his notepad out of his jacket as Donovan let out a snort of laughter. The three men before her turned to stare at her.

"Oh, sorry." she said, still chuckling. "It's just you two sound like a married couple. Seems there's someone for everyone, even freaks." Ignoring her, John flipped to the page where he had written down the girl's words.

"According to her, he walked in like he normally did, she took his order and he sat and waited. While she was making it-"

"She was approached by a woman who placed some pill in the cup before she closed the lid." Sherlock interjected. John glared at him.

"Why do you even need me if you're just going to do that?" John asked, putting his notebook away. Pretending not to hear him, Sherlock went on.

"It's curious, though, that even if a woman did approach her and place the poison in, that she didn't make a new one. I wonder why." Sherlock pretended to ponder. "Oh, that's right, because there was no other person at the counter. I asked the two older women in the cafe, and they testify that they didn't see anyone either.

"Yeah, but are they really reliable? They're probably more focused on their hairnets than anything-" Lestrade quipped, earning him an exasperated look from Sherlock.

"Open and shut case. She killed him, made up a person that no one else saw, and lied. Simple." he said. "Goodbye." he turned to leave.

"There's another butterfly." Lestrade called out after him. Sherlock paused and turned around again. "I think- and, I'm just throwing this out there- that means there's a connection to the previous murders."

"What type was it?" he asked, suddenly more interested. Lestrade handed him the square slip of paper. Sherlock snatched it and examined the orange butterfly. It looked similar to a Small Skipper, but he knew, the one difference was the antennae... This one had black tips... "It's an Essex Skipper." he said finally. He handed the paper back to Lestrade.

"We know, we figured that out a while back, while you weren't here yet." he said. "But that's three butterflies, and three deaths, and-"

"Two butterflies." Sherlock interrupted.

"What?"

"It's been two butterflies. The first one was a butterfly." Sherlock explained. Lestrade paused, then shook his head.

"Well, whatever it is, there's been three of them, and all we know is that the targets, after the first death seem to be the detectives on the case, so-"

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, interrupting again. Lestrade sighed.

"This one is John Harding." he said, hoping for once Sherlock would remember that name.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, glancing back down at the butterfly, letting himself get distracted again, trying to figure out the meaning of it. Lestrade stared at him disbelievingly.

"You mean that other detective?" John stepped in helpfully, glancing at Lestrade. The officer nodded.

"I wouldn't be continually called out here if it had any relation to the first death, except that now my men are dying too, and I need to get to the bottom of this." he looked over at Sherlock who seemed to be completely ignoring him now. He sighed, exasperated. "Why must you be so pigheaded? Obviously, you know that these murders are being carried out by the same person, and you know who it is. How can you just write it off as boring?"

"It's because I know who it is," Sherlock snapped back. "It's not fun when the perpetrator shows their face at the very beginning. I need the thrill of catching them, the mystery of the deaths. But this?" he motions around him. "This is just some crazy female killing the men who worked on her first -" he paused as he realized the crucial element to this killing spree. "Rowling and Orpheous."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade asked, putting his hands on his hips. Sherlock locked his eyes on the Detective Inspector.

"Castor Rowling and Lester Orpheous are the next targets."

"Oh now you remember their names." Lestrade said with a scoff.

"Oh stop your whining." Sherlock quickly spat out. "They are in danger."

"Well, so are we." John said quietly behind him. Sherlock whirled on the spot, his head cocked. John looked up at him. "We were at the crime scene too. How do you know we aren't going to be targeted either?" Sherlock looked at him, humoring him.

"Please, John. You have me. I can think my way out of any kind of danger." He turned back to Lestrade.

"Take them into protective custody" Sherlock commanded. "There can't be any more casualties by a psychopath." Lestrade nodded halfheartedly, not all enthused about following Sherlock's orders without any backtalk. He collected Donovan and left the two to their own machinations, heading off to the coroner's van to take the corpse back to the precinct.

"So." John said, after a moment of silence. "What should we do?" Sherlock paced in front of the white tape, picturing the image of the dead Detective on the ground.

Sherlock's mind raced with the possible locations of the killer. Although he found no real reason to pursue this case since all that was left was the police to find a less than thrilling serial killer, he still felt the nudging of something intriguing. Perhaps it was how each time, the cause of death was different.

Or maybe it had to do with the butterflies. Even if it was a Method of Operation, what was with the changing the butterfly in each attack? Could that mean something, or were they only using the ones that were convenient? He racked his brain for an answer.

_Northern Broken Dash, Orange Tip, and Essex Skipper. What is the connection? There must be one, or this wouldn't be bugging me as much._

"Sherlock?" John asked again. The young detective snapped back to reality, glancing up at John.

"What did you get out of the investigation so far, John?" Sherlock asked back, realizing that he hadn't asked his partner for his advice at all this time. Having an assistant was usually so important to him, that it was odd that he had completely neglected his friend. John stared blankly at him for a second, before sighing.

"Well, when the MP was killed, she, that woman, was a prostitute." he said, musing over what he saw. "The first death was definitely due to asphyxiation and a blow to the head, though in my time as a doctor back before the army, usual dominatrix marks were not like those."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. _Not like those?_ John stopped for a breath and continued.

"Well, usually, when a dominatrix closes off the throat to simulate lack of air, their fingers only focus on pressing down on the adams apple. This one, her fingers were clamped tightly around the neck. This isn't really the usual position."

Sherlock glanced away, his mind already hard at work. "John, you've just opened a new door." he said, after a moment. "I merely believed that she was a prostitute who was killing to cover her first mistake. But if what you said is true, then perhaps she is an actual hitter, using that guise as an in to attack her prey."

"Sure, but who would call a hit on an MP?" John asked, before the two of them locked eyes with each other and knew instantly who the other person was thinking.

"But- but why?" the doctor asked, after a moment of silence. Where was the reason to this madness? Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm afraid I don't know." Sherlock admitted, scratching his head. "But we need to find her so we can bring this murder spree to a close."


	4. Reeling Them In

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. But if I did, there would be way more yaoi scenes that we'd have to be put on a late night slot on TV. :3

**Author's Note:** I had to change one point of the plot. The **Oak Hook-tip** that I had originally used for the first death is now a **Northern Broken Dash**. I'm using the excuse that I didn't want to ruin the "butterfly" thingie by using a moth. :3 I think this is important for those who are trying to find out how the butterflies tie in. Mwahaha.

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><p>The young man nervously switched on the light of his bathroom, his breathing loud and shallow. It was empty, with the warm water in the tub fogging up the mirrors and the lone window up high above the wall. He slipped out of his clothes and slowly stepped into the bubbly bathtub, keeping his eyes on the door. There was no way he would make any mistake that would get him killed like the others.<p>

Ten minutes flew by with his worries unfounded. Relaxing slightly, he closed his eyes, keeping his ears alert for any unusual sound. He sighed, trying to forget his problems, trying to forget that his co-workers were dead, and trying to forget that he also had a chance of being attacked.

His ears perked up as he heard a small creak in the silence. He sat up in the tub, his eyes wide open, searching around for whatever could have made that noise. The door was still closed, that couldn't have been it. He glanced at the sink. The faucet was off, the cabinets were closed. Also not the culprit.

There. He heard it again. This time, he could tell in which direction it came from. Slowly, he looked up, to the now pushed open window above the tub. As if it was in slow motion, he scrambled to get out of the tub, slipping in the water and the soap as a taser fell down toward him into the water, the switch held down by duct tape wrapped around it tightly.

He let out a scream of agony as the implement touched the water, and within seconds, he was dead. From the window, a little fishing hook on a line dropped down, attached to it a small slip of paper with a butterfly, and landed on his forehead, sealing his fate.

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><p>"Taxi!" John called out into the street, stopping the first cabbie that came around the corner. Sherlock had been missing for days, and this was getting ridiculous. There was no doubt that he was hot on a lead, and would come back any time now proud at a new find that would help him get closer to the killer.<p>

Why he suddenly jumped into it was bothering John, since up until the third murder, he was quick to dismiss the killings as the work of a boring serial murderer. _But now_, John mused, _he has more time searching for her than he has spending time at home._

John shook his head. He was being stupid. He didn't miss Sherlock. Him not being there was a relief for him, as he didn't have to deal with his random childish outbursts.

The taxi took him to Wapping, where a seven story high apartment complex was surrounded by three police cars and meters of police tape. Tipping the cabbie, he hobbled out, getting let in by Sergeant Donovan who just smirked at him, perhaps with the knowledge that Sherlock had left him high and dry again, and proud that she would end up right about their relationship. John ignored her.

The seasoned doctor flinched slightly when he saw the electrified and burnt out body. Sure, he'd seen worse, in the war, but this was not a war site, it was only a bathtub. He squatted down at the tub and took a good look at the dead body. He was still smoking and was giving off a horrendous stench that could have been a BBQ, if his mind hadn't seen this person before him.

Both the weapon and the butterfly were bagged and laid out on the table the police had brought to the outside of the room. As John approached it, he came face to face with Sherlock.

"Morning, John." Sherlock said, his voice quite chipper. "How's the crime scene?" John cleared his throat.

"Male, throughly burnt through, so much so that we can see the bone tissue." he said, after a pause. Clearly, Sherlock didn't want to explain himself at the moment. _Not to worry, I can wait._ John thought, breathing slowly. He didn't want to show Sherlock his anger. Instead, he continued. "I need to ask Lestrade which detective he is, since when the skin is that far gone, there really is no such thing as discerning skin color. Except red and black."

"Very good, John." Sherlock said, pulling his rubber gloves on and picking the butterfly's baggie up. He peered in the bad "It's a Black Hairstreak," he said, quietly. He leaned down toward John. "You can tell it's not the White-letter Hairstreak by these wings, there's these rows of orange-"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock." John said, irritably. "Never mind the butterfly, where have you been?" he finally exploded, not able to contain it much longer.

"Following a lead." the detective said, simply, before the angry voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade boomed down the hall. They turned toward the noise.

"It's a damn SAFE HOUSE!" Lestrade yelled at a poor probie. "How could he die in a safe house? On the second floor?"

"I-I-I-I-I-" the young officer stammered under the pressure of his superior. Lestrade was basically leaning over him, feeling the man feel so little. He waited, breathing down his neck. The officer swallowed. "We-we had been keeping wa-watch outside the-the-the apartment, but nothing came." he swallowed again as Lestrade continued to loom over him. "S-sir." he added quickly, his knees knocking together, almost making a constant rhythm.

Lestrade sighed and backed off of the trembling subordinate. His eyes caught Sherlock and John staring at him from down the hall and he froze. Had they been watching that whole thing? He walked briskly toward them, nodding curtly.

"Sherlock, Doctor." Lestrade said, a scowl on his face, addressing the two flatmates. He threw up his hands in exasperation. "How is this still happening? We moved both Rowling and Orpheous to two different safe houses, and somehow, Orpheous was still killed just three days after Harding. Three days!" Lestrade cleared his throat and adjusted his suit jacket. "Because of this, I can only conclude we have a mole in the homicide division. Somehow, _somehow_, the information as to where these two detectives are have gotten out." He looked up expectantly at Sherlock, as if waiting for his approval at this deduction. Sherlock couldn't leave him hanging.

"Congratulations, Detective Inspector. Seems like you have a handle on things." Sherlock said, giving him one of his small smiles, before turning back down to the table. "That's a first." he mumbled.

"Come again?" Lestrade asked, missing the last few words. Sherlock looked up again and gave him another fake smile.

"Oh, nothing." he said. He picked up the butterfly and waved it in front of the DI. "So, about this butterfly. I assume that you've figured out it is a Black Hairstreak." Lestrade nodded and opened his mouth, as if to start speaking, before Sherlock continued. "I'm trying to think of the connection between these butterflies, but Nothern Broken Dash, Orange Tip, and Essex Skipper pretty much have nothing in common. Even where they can be found are different. The Northern Broken Dash is only found in America. The other two, over here. Why?

"I can only conclude that our murderess is an avid insect collector, well, either that or she has been going out and capturing these butterflies purely for these murders. But since butterflies like the Black Hairstreak are quite rare, and one can't produce them in a few days without staking out a butterfly reservation, it's more accurate to assume that these were already in her possession." Sherlock started to monologue.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade tried to interject. Sherlock ignored him and continued.

"I visited the precinct and borrowed some of the crime scene photos that your tech people had been taking at the motel, and found one that had that woman in it. I snapped a picture of her face from that photo with my phone and sent it to the internet, to find any matches; you won't believe the apps they have nowadays that are so handy in these kind of things, it only took a few seconds to get back a hit." Sherlock had brought out his phone by this point, as he came to the climax of his investigation. "Her picture was linked to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital, otherwise known as Bedlam, or London's oldest institution for mental illness. I went there and asked around, and they gave me her name." He proudly showed the profile of the woman from the private files of the Mental Hospital to John, and Lestrade.

"Casey Marionak?" John asked, taking the phone and looking at the face. It was definitely her, all right. He scrolled down the page. "It says she was released a month ago. Who in their right mind would release a psychopathic bi-"

"There's a notice there that says that she was deemed fit for normal every-day life, and was let go into the custody of her cousin, Jimmy." Sherlock said, one of his 'I'm-so-brilliant' grins widening on his face. "She was also known to collect insects." John cocked his head.

"But this here says she doesn't have any living relatives." John said, handing the phone to Lestrade. Sherlock's grin, if such a thing was possible, widened even further.

"_Exactly_." he said. "Who's _cousin Jimmy_?"

Lestrade looked at the face on the phone before giving the phone back to Sherlock. He breathed in and let it out slowly, calming his nerves. "Right. Sherlock, email that to me, so I can get started on the investigation on her. We'll put a BOLO out for her, and give her picture to every precinct in the area." He took out his phone to call his Sergeant. He pointedly shook it at Sherlock. "If she has anything to do with that Moriarty guy…" Sherlock gave Lestrade a stoic look.

"Detective Inspector, when I failed to capture him at the pool, I knew that I would rue that moment. But for him to break out a woman from an insane asylum? I'm not sure if that's how he would operate." Sherlock said, racking his brain for any information he had on James Moriarty.

"Yeah, but." John interjected. "How much do you know about him, anyway? Other than the fact that you two are very similar." Sherlock shot him a nasty glare. John put up his hands in peace. "I meant that both of you are extremely brilliant, and you use your ingenuity to your advantage, you for crime solving, him for crime making. Even if you have similarities, I don't think you've completely learned why he does what he does." Sherlock sniffed, slightly angry.

"John. Ever since that day, I have studied up on him. James Moriarty. His name floats on the wind of all the ill-doers wherever I go. From the rich and corrupt to the poor and seedy, he appears, never in person, but through some sort of interface, either a subordinate or internet. His first crime started way before Carl Powers, if these stories I've gathered are to be believed, even though he himself was an adolescent at the time. One can only assume that with his massive intellect, he had no equal, and instead fell to criminal activity…" Sherlock trailed off as he caught John and Lestrade both staring at him. With a scoff, he gave them both an unbelieving look. "Really, gentlemen, other than our quick processors, we are nothing alike. He is a psychopath, I am merely a sociopath. Two different beings on two different planes."

John and Lestrade exchanged glances. The DI cleared his throat.

"Well, I have to get her information out, as well as find my mole." Lestrade said, nodding at the two men in goodbye and leaving the scene with nothing more than a twirl on his heels. John turned to look at his friend.

"Sherlock?" he asked, as the brilliant consulting detective had suddenly grown quiet. As if he didn't hear the aged doctor, Sherlock peered into the bathroom and stood over the tub where the body still laid, minus the water that had been drained when they first found him. He glanced up at the window above the corpse. It was closed, yes, but the lock was open. He could tell, by the hinges on the frame, that the window pulled inward, making a kill from the outside that much simpler. He climbed onto the edge of the tub, careful not the step on poor Lester Orpheous, and wrenched the window open. Sure enough, it came towards him a few inches and he could just see outside the window a wooden awning. He smirked. Even if it was the second floor, someone who was limber enough would be able to climb up here. The only question was, what happened to the officers who were supposed to be watching outside?

He climbed back down and met up with John in the hall, who had been watching him intently during his thinking process. "Come along, John." Sherlock said, waving his friend toward him. "We're going up to the roof!" The two men found their way to the fire escape window and climbed the ladder to the top of the apartment complex, where the roof was empty under the wide open sky.

"There was a wooden awning under the window," Sherlock started explaining to his comrade, as he approached the edge of the building. He kneeled, checking the ledge out, finding small pieces of concrete that had been scraped off by something, or someone rubbing against it hard.

"Um, Sherlock?" John called from behind him, and the Consulting Detective turned to find his friend on the other side of the building, holding up a few black ropes that Sherlock could tell, even from the distance that there were rappelling gear. She must have been extremely lucky to not have been caught by the guards on the outside. Either that or they were stupid horses with blinders on that didn't even think to look behind them at the actual house.

How did she get on the roof? Instantly ideas formed in Sherlock's head, but he quickly shook them away. Where would she get the funds to parachute out of a plane to land on this apartment complex? No, there had to be another answer.

He walked over to the left side of the building, where the complex's neighbor, a flat roofed grocery store stood, at approximately the same height, only four feet away. If she had the limber ability to rappel down the side of a building, who's to say that she couldn't climb or jump from one building to another.

He took a few steps back and prepared him self for a long jump. Running as fast as he can, he could faintly hear John shout out his name before he leapt across the gap, landing and rolling on the other building. In one swoop, he dusted himself off and whipped out his magnifying slider, looking for any signs that the structure had been disturbed recently. Sure enough, he was able to find specks of broken off concrete, as well as black fibers. She had jumped, the same as him after her murder, and, it seems, scraped a bit of her gear as she landed. He tweezed the fibers he found and put it in a small baggie in his pocket, with the full intention of giving it to Lestrade later.

"Sherlock!" John shouted from the other ledge. He could see his partner almost eye to eye, and with his experiment there, he was able to prove that this was the way she must have gotten to the apartment. She rappelled down five stories to get to the window of the second floor, and _no one_ saw her? Sherlock frowned, trying to imagine how that was possible.

Sure, this apartment wasn't on a main street, and it is in a more seedy area of the city, but there must have been at least one person who noticed that a person was hanging on a rope off the side of the building. Furthermore, how could it be that none of the cops outside noticed?

Could it be that the mole that Lestrade was talking about was one of those on guard outside? That was probable. He could have distracted the other men, while Casey did the dirty work. Now, all he needed to do was to find Lestrade and ask him who he had on outside duty. The mystery of the mole would be solved.

"I'm going to go see our last detective, John." Sherlock shouted back, finally. John sighed with more visible irritation than before, at Sherlock's recklessness. It's like he could just jump gaps like this without a worry at all for his safety._ What I wouldn't give to live in his shoes._

"What should I do?" John asked, raising his voice so that his friend could hear him. Sherlock gave him a small smile.

"Go to Bedlam, for me, John. Get more information about Casey Marionak." he said, before sprinting to the door behind him to get off of the roof. John scratched his head and sighed again, making his way back down the stairs.

"Guess it'll be another long night alone." he mumbled to himself as he left the building. A uniformed officer let him out, and he found his way to the main road to call a cab. He shuddered slightly as he relaxed in the back seat of the taxi, as he thought of how close they were to the murders, and perhaps they would be the next targets. He breathed in and let it out slowly, thinking of what he had to do to protect himself and Sherlock, if the occasion called for it. After all, better safe than sorry.

"Excuse me, can we take a detour?" he asked the driver, leaning forward to get his attention. "Please stop for a moment at 221b Baker Street."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> The last name for the killer comes from my friend, whose name is Marion, and her alter ego is named Mak. Therefore, Marionak. She almost killed me for naming my killer after her. But I thought to myself, she's been helping with the plot points, why not?


	5. Sensing the Trap

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. No witty comments today. T.T

**Author's Note:** My introductory killings of the detectives seem to be getting longer each time… Sigh… Also, I watched Dr. Horrible Sing-a-Long Blog three times in a row last night, so it's stuck in my head now. Especially "A Man's Gotta Do" which Nathan Fillion sings. I've been singing loudly all day today, while wearing my Jayne hat from Firefly. Hooray for relevant crossovers.

Also, if anyone gets the Doctor Who reference, give me a holler. I love meeting new DW fans.

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><p>Castor Rowling, the last detective standing, could hear his heart jumping up his throat. The news of Orpheous had reached him only minutes earlier, and he felt helplessness overtake him as he realized he was the next to die. He breathed heavily. He wouldn't die. Not if he could help it. He had lifted his revolver from Lestrade before he was sequestered, so that he would not be completely defenseless in case the insane murderer came to kill him.<p>

Loading his gun, he double checked the window. Yes, they were locked, and the squad had changed the windows for bullet proof glass. He walked to the front door to the apartment and looked through the peep hole. Outside, two guards were stationed on either side of the door, like statues. He felt slightly wary that the officer on the right had the door keys on her belt. Probable theories of attacks sped through his head, including his guards being overpowered, or killed, and the keys being taken. He shook his head. The officers would do their best, and he would keep his gun on him for the last resort. Breathing a sigh of slight relief, he shoved his pistol into his pants and wrenched open the fridge in his kitchen. Grabbing the closest beer can, he cracked it open and took a swig, trying to drink his nerves away.

Night came without a tremor, and Castor found himself drifting off. Checking the windows one last time, and shutting the door to his room, he placed his revolver under his pillow and laid down his tired and stressed out body, without bothering to change out of his suit. He had used his brain too much in the past few hours, while trying to figure out all the possible ways that this Casey Marionak, according to Lestrade's information, would try to kill him. Needless to say, he stayed away from all open drinks or electrical devises.

He closed his eyes and drifted off, assuring himself that he had double-checked everything and that the two cops outside would watch the other entrance. Hopefully, he would be able to sleep the night away. He drifted in and out of drowsiness until everything blurred around him, and his eyelids closed for the night.

It wasn't until a few hours later that his bedroom door creaked open. Rowling was snoring away, the few beers he drank working his system. The figure who entered on tiptoes approached the left side of the bed where Castor Rowling's left arm was hanging over the edge. They seemed to first be looking around the room for something, before they removed the loosened tie from Castor's neck. Grabbing his two arms thrown out to the side, they brought it up to the headboard and tied it up with the necktie, binding him from moving.

He snored on. Sighing, the intruder slapped the detective once on the cheek, waking him up with a snort. He looked up to see the murderess Casey Marionak as his eyes widened and he started to struggle to get his hands free.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, trying his hardest to keep his voice from squeaking. Casey shrugged.

"Spoilers." she said, mysteriously.

"Officers!" he shouted, trying to get the attention of the two outside his door. Please, please let them be alive. He kept his eyes on Casey as she shook her head and smiled.

"I'm afraid they're a bit… dead." she purred, pausing for effect. Castor shook his head and fell silent, falling into the depression of helplessness, the one thing he wanted to avoid. He couldn't even reach his gun. Oh, he was so dead.

"Oh look, a revolver." Casey said cheerily, as she pulled out his pistol from under his pillow. "Castor, darling, you shouldn't have." She laid it softly on the bedside table, letting it sit without making much noise.

"What do you want?" Rowling growled out, feeling vulnerable with his hands tied tightly than he had ever felt even during his familiar sessions with his wife. "Just kill me and get it over with."

"Um, nope." she said, childishly, giggling a bit afterwards. She leaned in, coming only a few inches from his face. "I want you to leave a message for that gorgeous detective who's been on my case. That is.." she paused, leaning back away. "That is if you live long enough for someone to come and listen to your message."

"You're going to kill me, I don't see why I should even listen to you." he spat, starting to kick at his sheets, trying to gain enough leverage to loosen his bindings. Casey sighed. This was why she should have just killed him in his sleep. Games were annoying.

"That's true, I will kill you, and you don't have to listen." she said, thinking of a good response. "But if you do listen, this may be a hint as to help the others catch your killer. I would think that that would be a plus." her smirk widened, as his brain processed this. Yes, he would die, but if someone found him…

"Good boy."

* * *

><p>The elevator ride up to the sixth floor was uncomfortable. Two cops had insisted to ride up with him. As if he would do anything to merit the observation of two of London's finest. Sherlock sighed. He could just smell Donovan's handiwork on this.<p>

When the elevator reached the sixth floor, he entered the hallway and walked straight down the hallway and turned to go right. He glanced back at the two officers who had decided to stay at the elevator. Scoffing at the lack of protection for a fellow officer, he continued on to the room. He paused as he saw two bodies laying outside the safe room. It couldn't be-

He leapt over the bodies and shoved the cracked open door wider. He could hear convulsions towards his right, and headed past the kitchen and to a locked door, where he could distinctly still hear some sort of gagging sound. Stepping back a few steps, he lunged at the door to bust the lock, and found himself standing in front of the last detective tied to his bed, foaming at the mouth, the white bubbles dripping down his chin and all over his body and bedsheets.

Sherlock ran up to the body and grabbed a hold on Rowling's cheeks, trying to get his attention. "Who did this?" he asked viciously, shaking the poor man's head. "Was it Marionak?" Rowling's throat gurgled, as if he was trying to speak, while his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"N-nymh-aaaa-al- a-" he struggled to say, the last message his murderer had left him. Was it too late to give any hint as to what would happen?

Sherlock strained his ears. He couldn't make out quite what he was saying. _Nymph allah?_ "What is it? What's Nymph allah?" The man tried to shake his head. He lifted a shaking hand up to the butterfly on the pillow next to him.

"Nnym-ali a- a-" Before he could finish his struggling last words, the last detective Castor Rowling died in Sherlock's hands. Shaking slightly, Sherlock picked up the butterfly from the pillow next to the corpse.

"A Large Skipper." he muttered, as he glanced at it, as he noticed the checkered pattern under the wings. That was the difference between a Large Skipper and the other Skippers of the genus. Without another utterance of a word, he went to place the butterfly back on the pillow.

"Freeze, freak." he heard from behind him, the voice of a sergeant he knew so well. He turned and saw that she had her pistol drawn, facing him. His hands instinctively facing out, to show he had nothing on him. She advanced on him with a look of smugness on her, taking her handcuffs off of her hip. "Looks like I caught you in the act. No wonder you were reluctant to work on this case." she chuckled to herself as she handcuffed him from behind and led him out of the room.

"Look, Sergeant, I found the body, I didn't kill him." Sherlock tried to reason, as she kept shoving him out of the room. "He was alive and been poisoned, or something, if you just allow me to examine him-"

"So you can manipulate the evidence?" she scoffed. "Please. I'm not that stupid." she dragged him into the elevator and pressed the lobby button. "I always said you were a psychopath. Now, I can tell Lestrade I was right that he was a fool to trust your instincts."

Sherlock just stared at her. "Why do you hate me so much that you'll pin a crime on me, especially when you know that the culprit is someone else?" she glanced up at him.

"Do we?" she said, turning to face him. "All we have information on this Marionak person is from what you've told us. You've known every butterfly that was placed at the scene, most of which took us a while to find an entomologist to determine which butterflies they were. I just found you in the room with the dead person, placing the butterfly down. Usually, if we find a person with a gun over a dead body, they're the culprit. You led us on a wild goose chase while finally fulfilling your desires to kill. It seems very straight forward to me."

She turned back to the doors as they opened on the ground floor, dragging Sherlock out and shoving him into a police car. Defeated, Sherlock sat thinking, his mind whirring at the different possibilities that landed him in this mess.

_I can understand where Donovan is coming from, but there is no way that Lestrade will take this for what it looks like. I can explain myself to him._ He crinkled his nose, as he thought back to the dead detective._ And what was he trying to say? Nymph-something?_

The car ride ended in silence as Sherlock as driven to New Scotland Yard, where no doubt Lestrade would be waiting for him in a interrogation room. He sighed as Donovan helped him out, and was led into the police headquarters. He was set down in a darkened room with a table and a single chair, and, he could tell, a one way mirror on the far end of the room. _Yep._

"Mr. Holmes, do you know why we brought you in here?" Lestrade's voice wafted into the room, as a second door opened and the Detective Inspector walked in. Sherlock sighed and glanced up at the officer, his fingers interlaced and placed on the table, quite at ease.

"I thought we were on a first name basis, Detective Inspector Lestrade." he said, before pausing and contemplating mockingly. "Oh, hold on, are you distancing yourself because you believe I am a killer? I guess it would look bad if the person you were taking tips from to catch other psychopaths turned out to be one-"

"Seriously, Sherlock, your prints are on the body, and the butterfly." Lestrade said, his voice straining. "Why were you there if you hadn't killed him?"

"I was there to ask him a few questions, about anything he might know about these murders and whether he saw any unnatural movement within the police force." Sherlock said, resignedly. Best way for this to be over with was to cooperate. Lestrade rubbed his forehead.

"What do you mean, 'any unnatural movement'?" he asked. "Do you mean the mole?"

"Yes, of course I mean the mole." Sherlock started exasperated, before calming down. "Someone knew the fact that the two of them were in safe houses, and somehow, that led to their deaths."

"You knew." Lestrade said quietly, looking at Sherlock slyly. The consulting detective threw up his hands, not believing he had to go through this with the one officer on the force he thought he could trust.

"I didn't kill him." he said adamantly. "I learned of the location from eavesdropping on your conversation to the officers who would be protecting those two men. Yes, that's bad, don't give me that look. But I needed to find Rowling-"

"So you could get rid of him? He was the last end of this investigation that you didn't want to go through." Lestrade finished for him, trying to make a story out of the facts.

"No." Sherlock ground his teeth, on the verge of getting quite angry. "If you just look at the room, you'll notice my prints are only on a few things: the front door, because I pushed it open with my hand, Rowling's face because I tried to get him to talk to me, and the butterfly that I picked up afterwards. If I killed him, why isn't my prints on anything else?"

"You were wearing gloves." Lestrade said simply, shrugging.

"So, I took them off at the end, to be incriminated? Hardly." Sherlock said scathingly. He leaned forward. "Look, when I entered the room, he was still alive, but foaming at the mouth. I tried to get him to tell me what happened, but he died as he tried to say something. Right after then, Donovan came in and arrested me. If I could have, I would have poked around a bit more, to figure out the cause of death, if she hadn't come up." He paused. "Why was she up there, in the first place?" Lestrade sighed.

"They called her the moment they let you up, realizing a bit too late that it was curious as to how you knew of the place." he said. He leaned down on the table as well. "This would look a bit better for you if you told me how you killed him. Then, I could cut you a deal."

"How could I know how he died, if I didn't kill him?" Sherlock said adamantly. He leaned back, crossing his arms. Lestrade sighed and pulled out one of his papers and shoved it in front of Sherlock.

"He was found injected with potassium chloride." Lestrade said. "He suffered, quite more than the other detectives. Now, either she is escalating in her attacks, or you took it upon yourself to kill this detective, now why-"

"I told you, I didn't kill-" he stopped as something in his mind clicked. He gasped loudly, transitioning it into a, "OH!" and whipped out his mobile phone.

"Hey! They should have confiscated your phone before you came in here." Lestrade said, standing up to take it from Sherlock. The consulting detective leaned back.

"Donovan's not that smart." he said, frantically tapping on the screen. He smiled as he found what he wanted. He showed the screen to Lestrade. "The Nymphalis family of butterflies. There must have been a second word he was trying to say… Probably starting with an 'a.' Here! Nymphalis Antiopa." he scrolled down to a possible match and clicked on the link. "It's the Camberwell Beauty. But…" Lestrade shuffled through the papers he had in his hands.

"But the butterfly found at the scene was a Large Skipper." the DI continued, pulling out the picture of the insect from his copy of the evidence.

"Please don't interrupt, Detective Inspector, I'm thinking." Sherlock said, standing up and pulling a permanent marker out of his jacket pocket. Lestrade started to protest, as he saw Sherlock uncap the pen and start writing on the one-way mirror.

"The first butterfly: a Northern Broken Dash. The second, an Orange Tip. Third: Essex Skipper. Then the Black Hairstreak, and the Large Skipper." He stepped back looking at the list he had scribbled on the mirror of the interrogation room. Lestrade just stared at him, his mouth open slightly.

"You do know that you've been placed under arrest, and now you're vandalizing my precinct." he said, when he could finally find the words. Sherlock ignored him. As long as he got a result, what would happen afterwards didn't matter.

"But Rowling gives me a name, however it is the Camberwell Beauty, which is a separate butterfly all together." Sherlock added the name to the bottom of the list. "He gives me the scientific name, which she probably gave him. Of course, I had to infer from what he was telling me, he was quite dead by then, foaming at the mouth and everything-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said, impatiently.

"Right right." Sherlock said, turning his attention back to his list. "So, if we look at the scientific name instead, we get Nymphalis Antiopa for the last one. One second, I'll look up the others."

He worked quickly to jot down the rest of the scientific names and he stood back to look over his handiwork while Lestrade came closer, finding himself more intrigued with what Sherlock had found.

Northern Broken Dash - Wallengrenia egeremet  
>Orange Tip - Anthocharis cardamines<br>Essex Skipper - Thymelicus lineola  
>Black Hairstreak - Satyrium pruni<br>Large Skipper - Ochlodes sylvanus  
>Camberwell Beauty - Nymphalis antiopa<p>

"Sherlock, do you see what I see?" Lestrade asked, standing right in front of the list. Sherlock nodded his head, not believing what he saw, and handed Lestrade the pen, to allow him to change anything as he saw fit. Against his better judgement, Lestrade took the pen and contributed to the vandalism.

The Detective Inspector circled the first letter of each of the scientific names. Sherlock leaned off of the table, his usually bored look having been wiped clean, to be replaced with one of worry and anger.

"Sherlock, where is your Doctor friend?" Lestrade asked, turning toward the other man. Sherlock shook his head, upset with himself.

"I sent him to Bedlam, to learn more about Marionak." Sherlock said, almost punching himself for being so stupid. He could have sent John to his death. He looked at Lestrade, almost pleadingly. The DI sighed.

"Okay, I'll drop all charges against your arrest, since finding John Watson is our first priority, and that you obviously didn't kill Rowling." Lestrade said, grabbing his papers which he had dropped onto the table when Sherlock started writing on the mirror.

"Let me grab Donovan, and we'll go get him." the DI said, opening the door and letting Sherlock out. "And we'll book this murderer."


	6. Out of the Pan

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. The brilliant people in England do. Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss are both amazing and brilliant writers. If you haven't watched Doctor Who or Jekyll, shame on you.

**Author's Note:** All my plot-holes shall be revealed! Was this ending predictable? Could you tell what I was doing from the beginning? If so, tell me, and I'll plan it better for my next mystery! :3

I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY. It has been a crazy year. Undergraduate research, graduation, finding a job, applying for Grad School, and kicking lots of people. But here is my final installment of my mystery. I hope all my readers enjoy it, and that you guys forgive me for the delay!

* * *

><p>John Watson opened his bleary eyes to find the world sideways. No, the world wasn't what was sideways, he was laying down on his side. <em>The last thing I remember is-<em> He racked his mind for what could have happened. He had been heading home from the crime scene. What happened next? He must have lost at least a few hours of memory.

John shifted to try to sit up, but found his arms bound to his body, keeping him off balance, only leading him to roll forward onto his face. Swaying his body and kicking with his feet, he rolled all the way onto his back and looked down at his body.

He was wearing a straightjacket.

_Well, no wonder I couldn't move._ He thought to himself. He forced himself to sit up, and took a look around the area. It was as bleary as the tunnel he was taken once back a few months ago during the banker case. He had enough light to see that he was in a warehouse of some kind, in a wide open space with nothing else around.

"Why is London filled with so many abandoned places?" he muttered out-loud to himself. _Universities, tunnels, pools. They're all abandoned, and they never turn out good._ John sighed and struggled to stand up. When he was finally on his feet, he started exploring the open space, trying to find any way out.

To his left was a padlocked door, which would have been easy to break, had he had the use of his hands. He crashed into the door with his shoulder, only to have reverberating pain throughout his whole body. _Yeah, didn't think that would work._

"Help!" the doctor called out by the door, hopefully loud enough for anyone to hear him. But with his luck, they'd be out in the countryside with no one around. _Or a busy industrial area where no one cares._

"Nobody can hear you." A trilling voice came from beside him. John turned to see Casey Marionak standing beside him. Her face was slightly older than the one in the picture he had been shown, but he could still tell it was her.

"How did I get here?" he asked, skipping pleasantries. Casey shrugged.

"I don't know, I was asleep when Karl dropped you off." she said, yawning and scratching her head. John gave her a look of exasperation.

"So I was dropped off then." he said, unbelieving how lax she was. She had just killed five men, and yet, she was acting like a 10 year old girl. John examined her carefully. Could she possibly be off her rocker? "Who's Karl, anyway?" Casey shrugged again.

"Who's who?" she asked, as if she hadn't been listening. Giving up, John turned from her and tried to find another way out, hoping that there would be an unlocked door here, or a smashable window there. As he made his round around the warehouse, Casey followed him, giggling.

"You're not gonna get out." She said, sing-song-ingly each time he tried another door or window. He glanced back at her, annoyed at her antics. It was then when she dropped her facade and her eyes darkened. "You're not gonna get out, until I see my Sherly." she growled.

* * *

><p>"John!" Sherlock called out outside of Bedlam, hoping for any sign of an answer from his friend. The police force were already beginning their search inside the mental hospital, and Sherlock soon joined them, looking down every hallway the he could. If he lost his only friend, he would never forgive himself.<p>

"John!" he repeated countless times in the asylum itself, hoping for any reaction whatsoever. The only return he got was from the countless insane who were housed there, who started calling for the name John as well, as if it was some sort of game, and whoever said it the loudest would win.

Frustrated, Sherlock stormed out of the hospital and quickly ran into Lestrade who, with Donovan in tow had just gotten there to help with the search. Donovan looked none too pleased to see him. Sherlock returned the sentiment.

"Sherlock, frankly, I don't think we'll accomplish much searching here." Lestrade said. "My men tell me that the head psychiatrist never met your John, so all clues point to he was taken off the street. My guess? Probably a bribed cabbie." he placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder before the consulting detective shrugged it off. "We need something to help us find him, anything. Do you know who could have taken him?"

Sherlock sighed angrily. "Who else beside the one person who would want us off this case? Find Casey Marionak, find him." he stormed off, needing a bit of time to cool his head and think about how to logically find John. Sherlock cringed slightly as he thought of one person who could find an easy way to fix this, but it would have to be the end of the world to ask of a favor from him. Not yet.

Lestrade let out a huge sigh as Sherlock walked off, and shook his head. He didn't like dealing with the immature detective on a good day, but when something personal happened, he was much more unbearable.

"Johannsson, you're late!" he snapped at the patrol car driver who had just pulled up. The man quickly snapped to attention. Lestrade continued. "Get dispatch on the line, tell them we're going to need men to spread out all over London. I'll call the Chief-"

Sherlock stopped and spun on the spot. "Wait." he said. The uniformed cop paused, startled. Sherlock shot Johannsson a condescending look. "Not you, you moron." he said, shooing the policeman away. The consulting detective turned to Lestrade and dug into his pocket, grabbing the evidence he had pulled from the roof earlier. "Look at this." he said, shoving it in the DI's face. Lestrade leaned back just enough to keep himself from having a mouthful of gravel.

"What about it?" Lestrade asked, unimpressed.

"Gravel and fiber from the roof of Orpheous's safehouse. I need to know who was standing guard at the time of the murder." He said, his sentences clearly not forming a single thought in Lestrade's mind. To him, they were simply two disconnected pieces of information that Sherlock has stated to him.

"What?" Lestrade asked, exasperated. Sherlock resisted the urge to stomp his feet childishly. This happened every time, every case. Why did they keep questioning him, and why did he have to keep explaining himself?

"I found these fibers on the roof. Although I need to check to make sure, It seems like they are from industrial strength rope, which would be strong enough to hold a person against a wall as they rappelled down to drop the taser in the window. This gravel was loose, as if confirming my theory. I just would like to test it as well, to see if there are any other distinguishing marks on it from the type of footwear, or location that the person was last at. You know, science stuff that only I seem to be able to do, since Anderson is completely useless." he took a breath, as Lestrade tried to intervene. Instead, Sherlock cut him off as he continued.

"Because it is highly unlikely that someone could rappel down the side of the wall without anyone seeing, your mole must have been coordinating with Marionak, making sure the other policemen were busy doing other things while she slipped in and murdered him. Either that, or he did it himself." Sherlock continued, speaking quickly. After all, John's life may be on the line. "So, the two people who were most likely the best suited for keeping an eye out would be one of the two who were guarding the door. Who?"

Lestrade swallowed slowly and glanced over at his men. Sighing defeatedly, he knew he'd have to answer to find the culprit, and as much as he didn't want to give up any of the men he had known for many years, Sherlock was usually right about these things. He glanced up at him. "It was Zuka and Johannsson."

* * *

><p>John warily stayed as far as he could from his kidnapper, as he settled in to his new surroundings. In the position he was currently in, there wasn't much he could do than to just sit and watch her from afar. The more he watched her, however, the more he felt as if they had the wrong suspect. She hummed a tune to herself, braiding her hair, and twirled, as if in the body of that middle aged woman there was a 10 year old simply wanting to play.<p>

But the doctor shook his head. He reminded himself that she had been let out from a mental institution. When he had glanced at her file Sherlock had brought up on his phone, he had noticed that she was committed for schizophrenic tendencies, but this- this was more akin to multiple personality disorder.

As he watched her, he noticed that suddenly, she had stopped twirling. She was sitting down and seemingly talking to the floor. Although he couldn't hear her from far away, he was sure he heard his name. And Sherlock's. Was this one of her schizophrenic hallucinations? He inched closer, to try and listen.

"But he's not coming, Jimmy." she was saying to the ground. "I have his mate, and he's not coming... No, I didn't tell him that... But he told me first, why has he forgotten?... Yes, I'll be a good girl."

John kept his eyes peeled for a mobile or a Bluetooth headset, just in case it wasn't her talking to a hallucination. If someone was actually feeding her information, then this Jimmy might actually be the true mastermind. But she stayed sitting, not moving, without a single piece of technology visible. John sighed and sat up straight. He felt bad, knowing that even with her mental instability, she would be locked up permanently for all she had done. As a doctor, wasn't there something he could do to help?

But no. He had no medicine, and he was a hostage. She probably wouldn't even listen to him.

"I hear you scheming over there." Casey suddenly said, her girlish demeanor gone again. The back of John's neck tingled. Her voice cut through his thoughts like a knife in warm butter. "Just sit quietly. Or Sherly won't have a present from me when he gets here."

As small beads of sweat trinkled down his neck, John Watson realized he feared this girl. Him. He who was in the army and saw much war, and lived through the worst of it. He who almost lost his girlfriend because of Chinese black market dealers, and was still able to come out unscathed. This woman instilled fear. She had no weapon on her, but her mere presence was overwhelming.

It was at that moment that John had wished he had his gun on him.

* * *

><p>"K. Johannsson." Sherlock muttered to himself, glancing through his files. The man had been top of his class in the police academy, but that wasn't interesting. He had emigrated from Iceland when he was 12 with his father, who died a few years later from alcohol poisoning. Again, not that interesting. Before joining the police force, he had gone for his medical degree, to try to save others from the same fate of his father. <em>Warmer.<em> It was only after he accidentally gave an overdose of ketamine to a bipolar patient which resulted in them getting committed in an institution that he put away the white coat. _Bingo._ It wasn't until many years later when he decided to find a legitimate job again that he applied for the police academy. He knew his chances was slim because of his past slip-up, but was ecstatic when they allowed him on a probationary position. And since then, he moved up and became a hard working cop.

But Sherlock had now caught him in his web. It really just fit together too simply. The man had a guilty conscious a mile wide, and for some reason, that had drove him to help the one person he had put into Bedlam. Smiling to himself, Sherlock tossed the files behind him in the street and started walking away from the site, ignoring the calls from Lestrade. For this next part, he would need something of John's from home.

He hailed a cab and quickly made it back to 221B Baker Street. Telling the cabbie he'd be right back, Sherlock leapt through the door and bounded up the steps to the second floor. After rustling around John's desk for a while, he found the old army doctor's Sig Sauer, and hastily put it in his trenchcoat pocket. With a slightly more calm demeanor, he went downstairs and stepped outside, to find his cab had left. Looking around, Sherlock wondered why he would have disappeared, seeing that he hadn't even paid yet. On his left, however, a small unmarked car pulled up, the driver rolling down his window to stick his head out for Sherlock.

"You. Lestrade told me to come get you." the unmistakable blonde haired and blue eyed Johannsson said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"What for?" Sherlock asked, hesitating to get it. Last time he got into a car with a possible hostile, he almost died. Of couse, he had John to save him then. Johannsson shrugged.

"I dunno, some sort of break. Maybe they found your doctor." he said, leaning back in and unlocking the back door with an unchanging frown. Sherlock approached the door and sat inside.

"Then take me to him." he said, keeping his eyes on the driver. He would let him decide who he meant.

* * *

><p>The warehouse was huge, almost imposing. They had driven a good hour out of the city and down a few abandoned roads to get there. And with a small sad smile and a hastily spoken "Sorry," Johannsson sped off, leaving Sherlock there by himself. He looked around the building for an entrance, but there wasn't one to be found on this side, only huge, looming windows. He could break one, but that would ruin the element of surprise.<p>

_Of course, since he drove me here, I'm sure surprise is completely out of the question anyway._ He throught to himself. As he started walking towards one end of the building, he fumbled for his phone. Even if it would be a bit late when Lestrade got here, he could still give him a call-

No. There was no signal. So unless Lestrade figured it out that something was wrong, he and John would have to fend for themselves. So, what else was new?

As he turned the corner, he found a metal door that had been locked, the key still in the keyhole. It would be apparent to even the dullest person that it was meant to keep the people (John) locked in, and let the person on the outside (him) come and get him. Readying himself, he turned the key and the door opened noisily.

Once inside, he noticed the warehouse was well lit, and standing in the middle of the empty floor was Casey Marionak, a little worse for wear, and beside her, sitting down, looking cross and wearing what appeared to be a straight jacket, was John.

"Sherly!" Casey screamed out excitedly when she saw him step in. She bounced in one place, clapping her hands happily. "I'm so glad you could make it!" Sherlock inched forward, placing one hand on the cold metal in his pocket. He wouldn't want to use it if he didn't have to, but-

"How are you holding up, John?" he shouted out at his friend. John groaned.

"Just peachy. My arms are killing me though." he said, through gritted teeth. Sherlock smiled.

"No fair, Sherly." Casey pouted, stomping her feet. "After all I did for you, you're just going to ignore me? You should have realized by now, we're soulmates!"

Sherlock kept inching toward them, keeping his eyes on her. She had murdered five people, what's to stop her from killing John as well, when he's in such a vulnerable position? He would humor her, for now. "I apologize, Ms. Marionak. I didn't realize of our connection until now." A little closer.

Her childish demeanor dropped quickly. "That's because this man has been poisoning your mind." she said, pulling a revolver of her own out of nowhere and pointing it at John. "I've seen him. Whispering in your ear the devil's words as you recieved recognition for all your good work. Forcing you to go in front of the camera with him, so that everyone would know that he controlled you. But I noticed. I saw through his forked tongued lies. He is what is keeping us apart. When you told me you loved me, in the fleeting moment when he was looking away, I knew. I knew I had to save you.

"But you are a hard person to get a hold of. And I saw how much of a grip this man had on you. And I knew that his control would be his downfall. Because, you see, even through he has brainwashed you into thinking he's your friend, the moment he dies here, you'll be free. That's why I lured you here, Sherly, with his name. Because I knew that his mind control would be powerful enough that if I had him, you would come.

"And now, for you, my love, I will destroy the one thing that is holding you back." She said, taking the safety of the revolver and cocking the gun. John steeled himself for the gunshot.

"Wait." Sherlock's voice rang out. "Wait… Casey." he said, trying his best to stall. It seemed to work wonders, for her ecstatic voice was back, although the gun didn't move an inch from John's head.

"Oh, Sherly!" said, girlishly. "You're breaking free of is control! Yes, call my name again!" she said, her eyelashes fluttering. Sherlock struggled to hold down bile as he continued.

"Casey, I'm so sorry." he said, moving closer to her again. "I know how hard it must have been, knowing you were the only one who could break me from his spell. But you've done it." he opened his arms as if for an embrace. "In his fear of death, he must have loosened control, and I have taken it back from him. I'm me again."

She lowered her gun and fell into Sherlock's arms. Although she was visibly a few years older than the detective, her height fell a foot short, and she leaned her head on his chest. For a moment, nobody moved. John from shock that Sherlock had resorted to hugging, and Sherlock from fear of feeling a psychopathic woman cuddling him. But in an instant, their eyes met. And Sherlock was telling John only one thing.

_Run._ Understanding, John stabilized himself on his two feet and ran for the door Sherlock had come for. Once outside, perhaps he could find something, something sharp to cut open the straightjacket. As he ran halfway across the empty warehouse, Casey peered over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh that's not good. He's taking advantage of this moment." she said, her cold voice back. She trained her gun over Sherlock's shoulder to take aim at John's head. As she pulled the trigger and shot, Sherlock grabbed her arm and knocked her off balance, pushing her to the ground. In one flicker of a movement, he pulled out the Sauer from his jacket pocket and pointed at her. She was now pointing her gun at him as well.

"I should have known that his spell was too powerful." she said, spitefully. "I thought killing him would be enough, but since he is laying there in a pool of his own blood and you're still threatening me, I can only assume that he will have you in death as well." At her words, Sherlock's heart almost stopped. Did her shot actually hit John? He couldn't chance taking his eyes off of her, for she would most certainly shoot him then as well. But John-

"Urgh." Sherlock heard from behind him. He was alive! Relief filled him, the same way anger seared through Marionak. She trained her gun on John once more, taking her eyes away from Sherlock. Quickly, and with no mercy, Sherlock kicked her hand that held the gun, making it fly out of reach, and pointed his own gun to her temple.

Tears were streaming from her eyes now. "But why? I love you." she said, her voice weak. "He assured me that you loved me back. I heard you tell me that. How could his sorcery be this powerful? Why did you lie to me, Sherly?"

"Who assured you?" Sherlock demanded. "Was it your 'cousin Jimmy'?" he asked. But his questions fell on deaf ears. Casey Marionak expired on the floor, of a broken heart. Angrily, he checked her pulse. None at all. How anticlimactic.

Quickly, he ran to John, who was laying on the ground immobile. The bullet went through the straightjacket, completely going through the shoulder. Sherlock turned John over on his back, to the chagrin of John.

"Ugh, can't you be a bit more gentler? I've just been shot in the shoulder." John groaned, chuckling in pain. "Again."

"You better not pick up that cane again." Sherlock said. "Come, we need to get out of here, and get in contact with Lestrade." He took off the buckles on the back of the straightjacket, releasing his hands. John shrugged out of the white prison, the fibers in contact with the bullet hole scraping agianst his wound. But at least he would be able to balance more easily. Sherlock ripped the bottom of his trenchcoat to create the bandage and sling, putting pressure on the wound to keep the blood from flowing too much. Holding his left arm against his body, John put it in the makeshift sling, he stood up and joined Sherlock out of the warehouse.

The two lumbered down one of the abandoned road, John trusting Sherlock on the direction, as we was completely knocked out on the way in. The two walked in silence, thinking in their head of all the events that had happened in the past week.

"Do you think," John started, after a while. "that Moriarty was behind this after all?" Sherlock gave it a moment's thought before answering.

"Perhaps he instigated it by asking for her release. We both know that he is a manipulative actor, and he would probably have a resources to bribe doctors to say she is fit for release." He said, carefully forming his statements. "But I think she was so far gone anyway that he didn't need anything to push her over the edge."

"I would ask as to how he knew of her, but I'm sure that would be a moot point." John said, quietly. "With all his men everywhere, they must have tipped him off somewhere that there was a schizoprenic patient who was intent on finding you."

Sherlock fumed. As much as the puzzle of the butterflies had intrigued him, he hadn't expected it to end that quickly. But at least John was still alive. That was really all that mattered. Only a little more than the puzzle.

As they labored down the path, the two started chuckling, and then laughing. It had been such a week. And finally, it was over. Even John was looking forward to a bit of a quiet sit down without any cases. And so, the two made it back to the main road in the gaining darkness, as they headed back to the city. It would be a long walk.

* * *

><p>In the end, the two found themselves sitting in the back of Lestrade's car, only a half hour into their walk. Johannsson had cracked, he told them. He admitted that it was him who had been helping Marionak, mainly due to his guilty conscious of putting her in the insane asylum in the first place. Lestrade was taken aback to learn that Marionak was dead, and even more surprised that she had died so quickly. He laughed at Sherlock's irritation that it had ended that way, but nonetheless, told the Consulting Detective that he had done a good job.<p>

When they reached the precinct, Lestrade had a few of his men take a coroner to go get Marionak's body from the warehouse. A few hours later, they came back empty handed, stating that the location they had given them didn't exist. Lestrade, Sherlock, and John, unbelieving, went with them to the original location, using Karl as a navigator as insurance, and found themselves in an empty field, the last traces of metal stripped away completely.

Sherlock's eyes darted from here to there. He wanted any clues to show him how it had disappeared. He sweeped the area, and found, pinned to a tree a bit of a distance away a little note. There were no words, just a symbol and initials: a smiley face and JM, all of which was smeared on the note in blood. Sherlock smiled. Next time, he would get that man.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>THE END! Oh man, I finally finished, after about a year of not doing anything. I hope it was a good ending, it was originally going to end differently, but meh. Okay, onto the next project! Haha


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